Tears and Tenderness
by Minirose96
Summary: UNI!LOCK/ When Molly's father dies on Valentine's day, she can't imagine the day getting worse. She's right. She has the most marvelous dream that night. Of course, it might not be just a dream after all. Part of the Sherlolly Valentines Day Ficathon and dedicated to tiredofthingsthatbreak


Molly clung to the phone in her hand as she collapsed into the armchair in the center of the dorm, crying at the news she had just been given. She had been expecting it for some time, given the doctor's diagnosis, but the news of her father's death still hit her incredibly hard. The cancer had eaten away at him slowly but surely, until he was a shell of the man he used to be, playing pretend for his family.

That had been the hardest part. She was glad he wasn't suffering anymore. That gladness didn't stop her from wanting to crawl into a corner and just cry her eyes out.

The phone's cut off beeping let her know her mother had hung up long ago, but she couldn't let go of the phone. She just wanted this to be a lie.

It was Valentine's Day. This was a day for love, happiness, good feelings, not this. Not this pain of loss and regret and pain.

Molly set the phone aside, not bothering to put it back on it's stand, and pulled her legs up to cradle them against her chest. As she buried her face into her knees, her brown hair cascaded down to cover her features.

Her small frame shook with the gut-wrenching sobs she let out. She didn't hold back, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she'd be done with most of her crying before Mary, her roommate, got back from her date with John. She didn't want to burden her friend with her problems, especially not tonight.

She wasn't sure how much time passed. Not long, since the clock had just barely chimed with the new hour. It all somewhat blended together until the door creaked open.

She sniffled, and wiped the sleeve of her shirt across her cheeks and nose to get rid of the unsightly tear tracks and snot dribble. Looked at the clock, but not at the door, she swallowed, figuring Mary must have gotten in early. She hoped her friend's date went well.

"H-hey Mary." She said, trying to sound okay. Her voice was tired and cracked, but she hoped she wouldn't look too much into it.

"Not Mary."

Molly went rigid in her seat as Sherlock's deep baritone resonated where she expected Mary's teasing, light greeting.

She let out a soft groan, and allowed her head to fall back onto her knees. "Not now Sherlock. I don't want to help with any experiments tonight. Please just leave." She hated it so much. She knew she sounded like she'd been crying, and was still trying to fight back more tears. She hated how her voice cracked and her tone came out meek.

There was a stark silence that followed, broken by the occasional sniffle. In that time, she hoped he would just leave.

Of course, he didn't.

Sherlock's footsteps started again, rounding the chair until he stood in front of her, and then he knelt down in front of her, and looked her up and down. She tilted her head up from inside her knees, and met his eyes. She knew he could see the moisture in them.

It didn't take a genius to realize he was doing what he always did; deducing her. Right now, she really hated his prying, because she knew, in the end, he would be right, and he'd probably just say the wrong thing and upset her more, even if he didn't mean to.

"Your father died today." Not a question, a simple statement. It caused Molly's eyes to fill up with tears again, which was answer enough.

There was a crinkling of plastic, a sound Molly didn't bother trying to figure out the cause of, and suddenly she was being enveloped in a loose, awkward, warm, wonderful hug.

Sherlock's lanky form practically draped over her and almost before she knew it, her face was cradled against his neck as she cried and clutched at the lapels of his coat. With more patience than he'd ever displayed for her before, he held her, letting her dampen the collar of his shirt and cling to him.

Molly didn't know how things progressed from there, but suddenly her face was being cupped ever so gently in his hands, and his lips were on hers in a slow, gentle kiss that had her toes curling and made the ache in her chest fade just a bit.

She was frozen for a moment, wondering what was happening. Sherlock didn't kiss her. He didn't kiss anyone. He was her fascination, her out-of-reach want. This had to be a dream. She must have fallen asleep in the chair, and this was her mind trying to comfort her.

Right now, she didn't care if this was just a dream. She wanted to feel better, and he made that possible. It didn't bring her father back, nothing would, but this lovely dream wasn't over yet, and if she wasn't allowed happiness while awake, she would damn sure have some happiness while asleep.

He pulled away first, and used his thumbs to wipe away the last of her tears and the tracks they had made.

His eyes met hers, and she smiled ever so slightly. His eyes were the perfect, unidentifiable shade of blue-green. Usually her dreams couldn't get it quite right. Her mind was being nice today.

He opened his mouth, as though to speak, but Molly didn't let him even utter the first syllable. Using her grip on his coat, she tugged him forward, and pressed her lips against his, using every bit of passion and technique she had. He responded beautifully, letting out an empowering groan as he kissed her back like a man thirsting for water in the desert having found his oasis.

She nibbled his bottom lip, and he opened for her beautifully. She traced his lips with her tongue before delving inside. He seemed almost shell-shocked by her boldness, but Molly coaxed and teased this excellent dream into motion, until he was responding with vigor, his tongue brushing with and teasing the inside of her mouth.

She shifted forward, and her legs fell off the chair to either side of him as her hands tangled in his hair, tugging playfully.

God, his moan was more real than it had ever been before. His hair was silky smooth, the dark curls wrapping themselves around her fingers eagerly as she lightly scratched the top of his head.

They broke apart, both panting, but Molly wasn't done, not by a long shot. She trailed kisses across his gorgeous cheek bones and down his neck to his pulse point and sucked gently. She could feel his heart beat beneath her lips, the hitch in his throat as he swallowed down what was no doubt another one of those wonderful noises.

She wrapped her legs around his chest, and as if reading her mind he stood, holding her against him as he carried her to her bed. Well, she hoped it was her bed and not Mary's, even if this was only a dream. She wasn't really paying attention to where they ended up, much more focused on teasing and sucking the skin under her lips.

They landed in a heap onto the bed, and her legs unhooked from around him. She let out a small whine as he pulled away from her. She sat up on her elbows and watched as he removed his shirt, pulling it off over his head and flinging it off into some dark corner. His chest was lean and pale, with just the ghost of a happy trail.

She didn't have much time to admire the view. Less than a second later he was kissing her again, taking the lead and more, taking everything she offered so openly to him.

As much as she loved being underneath him, in her mind she rarely got the control she craved, and now she wanted it. She twisted them both, using mostly his surprise to end up on top.

Like he had, she hovered over him for just a moment before stripping herself of her shirt and bra. They slid off the bed, forgotten in seconds.

Molly had never been this wanton with her other lovers, as few and far between as they had been, but if this was her mind, she would do whatever she pleased as long as this dream continued to be the realest one she'd ever conjured.

She straddled him without a hint of her usual nervousness, despite some of his cruder comments towards her racing through her mind. He certainly didn't seem to have any complaints about her breast size now. On the contrary, he was staring at them with undisguised adoration.

She ran her nails down his chest as she leaned into him and kissed him again, silencing another of his attempts to talk. She didn't want to hear whatever words her mind could conjure up that might truly convince her this wasn't real. She wanted the fantasy.

His hands brushed up her sides from her hips to the edge of her breasts. He hesitated for just a second too long for Molly's liking, even in this already perfect fantasy, so she placed her hands over his, and led him to her breasts, guiding his fingers around them until he took control again, rolling his thumbs over her hardened nipples.

She let out a mixture between a whine and a moan, and a shiver ran down her spine.

Pants were shucked awkwardly, neither wanting to part long enough to properly remove them. It was a scrambling mess to stay pressed against each other as much as possible while still removing the offending garments.

Scarcely had the barriers between them been removed then Molly was taking him in hand. He bucked into her hand as she felt his length and width. She liked what she felt. She fancied she could feel it pulsing in her loose grip as she scrambled for one of the condoms she kept in her bedside table. She tore off the wrapper with her teeth as Sherlock, mesmerized, watched, and she slid it onto him quickly before guiding him to her slick waiting entrance.

They both gasped as she sank down onto him, seating herself fully. He was longer than average and seemed to touch new spots inside her. She clenched experimentally around him, and he let out the most gratifying sound. She did it again.

Her name slipped off his tongue, and she covered his mouth with hers as she began to lift off of him, only to sink down again. He started thrusting up to meet her.

She felt the usual build of sexual tension, but something was different. Where she'd always been left just on the edge of fulfilled, he began to take her farther than that, until the damn broke, and she felt herself tensing and moaning his name as ripples went through her body. He came as she continued to tense around him, and she collapsed onto his chest, panting.

She laid a feather light kiss on his chest and rolled carefully off of him as he softened inside her. He seemed spent, disinclined to move, not that she minded. He looked gorgeous debauched, she decided, even if this version of him was just in her mind.

She took off the condom carefully, and leaned over the side of the bed to a waste basket and deposited it inside before laying against him with one arm draped over his chest. No doubt when she woke up she'd be snuggling with the arm of the chair.

He drew small patterns into her shoulder.

"Molly..."

She sighed, and snuggled deeper against him. "Shush it you, I'm not done cuddling yet." she snipped.

Molly could almost sense the frown as Sherlock - well, dream Sherlock - contemplated her words. She couldn't believe how accurate it all was. Of course he'd want to talk after a perfectly wonderful shag.

Thankfully, he seemed to decide silence was the best. He kissed the top of her head gently and stayed quiet as she dozed against him.

Her last thought before she seemed to drift off to sleep - which was no doubt actually her waking up, she mused - was that she wished the real Sherlock would treat her this nicely when she needed him to.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Molly woke up feeling wonderful in every way. Her muscles felt like liquid in the good way, and she stretched out on the bed with a happy sigh before snuggling her pillow close and preparing to drift off once more.

_Wait. I wasn't in bed when I fell asleep._

The thought shattered Molly's daze, and her eyes flew open. She looked accusingly at the pillow under her head as she propped herself quickly up on her elbows.

She looked down at her chest, her eyes going wide.

_Holy shit I'm naked. _

"You're up then. I tried not to wake you."

_Oh No._

Almost reluctantly, she turned to look over her shoulder. Sherlock, having only bothered to pull on his trousers, was sitting at her and Mary's mismatched dining set, drinking coffee as he watched her.

"You're here." She deadpanned. "That wasn't a dream."

Sherlock arched a brow. "That explains several things, but no, Molly, that was not a dream."

Her face went as read as a cherry as she scrambled out of the bed, clutching the blanket around her. She hurried towards the dresser to get clothes. The whole thing seemed to amuse Sherlock, who chuckled with the most contented look on his face.

She barely looked at him as she collected her clothes and rushed to the bathroom to change.

She knew it was chicken of her, but she locked herself in as she changed, and then for longer, simply sitting on the lid of the toilet, feeling mortified.

Why on the bloody earth would Sherlock come here and kiss her and shag her senseless? It didn't make bloody sense! No. Sherlock just didn't do that.

She deflated. A pity fuck, she supposed.

As soon as the thought sank in, she steeled her resolve. Oh _hell_ no_._ She was hurt last night, but she _was not _some bloody pity case, a one night stand or any of that shit. She was not that kind of girl, not even for Sherlock bloody Holmes.

She stood, and stormed her way back into _her _flat, where he _would not _shame her into hiding. There was fire in her eyes, and Sherlock noticed immediately. His smile faded into something unreadable, and he stood up as though to hold off the onslaught as she stopped in front of him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" She demanded, not giving him time to answer before continuing, "Get out of my room, and stay out. I don't know what you expected Sherlock, but I _am not_ some bloody pity shag for you or anyone else, and I suggest you figure that out right now, or so help me -"

Sherlock had sat through her words impassively, which only angered her more. When he did finally act, is wasn't with a backlash comment of his own as she expected. Instead, he cut her off by cradling her cheeks and kissing her lightly. The words had died in her throat, and once more her cheeks were a bright red.

Seeing as she was speechless, Sherlock deemed it a good time to do some speaking of his own.

"I didn't come here expecting a shag, Molly, nor do I intend to leave until you listen to what I was trying to tell you last night."

She swallowed, and averted her eyes as she nodded.

"Good." He said, kissing the top of her head softly.

"Last night, John asked me to make myself scarce from our dorm, no doubt because he intended to take Mary there after their date. He also hinted multiple times that you would be alone, and no doubt in need of company, because he was privy to information that you have no doubt misconstrued now - that information being that I have had feelings for you for some time that goes beyond our current relationship as friends - and he was trying to nudge me into the correct direction since it was clear you would not make the first step alone again. I came here last night intending to give you these -"

he reached to the side, onto the dining table, and pulled forward a rumpled bouquet that had no doubt once been a beautiful assortment of white roses. She preferred white, even if red was considered the romantic one.

She took the bouquet wordlessly as he continued.

"And explain to you that though I have turned you down in the past, it was merely because I did not realize you were asking me to coffee and not asking if I wanted coffee, along with your various other attempts that John made sure to point out to me several times. You were crying when I got here, and with a show of affection, you seem to have mixed dream with wakefulness, as you now know. What happened last night was not planned, nor do I expect a repeat of it until an acceptable time has passed in our furthered relationship, if you will enter in one such relationship with me."

Molly's brain seemed to have short circuited as he explained everything. She absorbed his words, but the information took a bit longer than usual to process. A few minutes passed, in which time Sherlock's face shifted for carefully guarded, to curious, to confused, worried, and back to a blank slate as he waited for her response.

She looked down at the roses in her hand, and touched the most put together of this with her fingertips. "I think I'd like that... only..."

"Yes?" He asked, trying not to seem too eager.

She smiled softly. "I liked my dream."

Sherlock's lips slowly morphed into a smile that reached his eyes. Soon, they were laughing together, and he pulled her against him, roses crinkling between them as he kissed her.

This reality, she decided, was much better than any dream, except maybe the ones that ended up not being dreams at all.


End file.
